


Dream On

by Derek_needs_a_hug



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, BAMF Stiles, Cursed, Curses, Death, Derek Hale is Bad at Feelings, Derek is a Failwolf, Druid Stiles Stilinski, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mage Stiles Stilinski, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Magical Tattoos, Romantic Angst, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmates, Stiles to the rescue, Werewolves, did i already say angst?, dying pack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-02-16 00:16:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13042536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Derek_needs_a_hug/pseuds/Derek_needs_a_hug
Summary: Not only was Derek a societal pariah, destroyed by what he’d mistakenly thought was love; he was also so repulsed by the thought of his own soulmate that he would become nauseated almost to the point of physically retching.AKA Derek is 24 and Stiles is 9 when they first meet.





	1. Meeting

**Author's Note:**

> yooooo it's me. Sorry to those reading my other fic, which is still WIP, but I have actually finished this fic, so I'll be editing as I post this. Hope y'all enjoy

Both before and after the soul bond appeared, Derek had known that it was only a matter of time. 

Before it appeared, he’s spent his life wondering whether he would ever even have a soulmate. All of his siblings had met theirs. Granted, both Laura and Cora were born with soul bonds (also known as “soul string” or “ribbon”, as per the visibility of a glowing red line--not that Derek would know), an indication that their soulmates were older than they were. So, when Derek was born without one, it wasn’t at all unusual; there was a fifty-fifty chance of being born with or without a soul bond anyway.

Soulmates were most commonly born within five years or so of each other. The longer that period of time without a bond, the less common it was, but nothing much to be concerned about really. Derek’s parents had a nine-year age-gap, Talia being older than his father, and as a child Derek was reassured by this. Even so, as each disheartening birthday passed, Derek--and his family, even though they would try not to let it show--would become progressively more concerned, especially when nine years had passed and he had nothing to show for it.

In the years following his ninth birthday, his attitude towards the bond--or lack thereof--regressed into something that, in itself, was damaging enough. But, Derek having been until then a perfectly normal, even happy, young boy, that problem managed to seep into most aspects of his life. He became quiet and reserved. He suddenly had fewer friends, and was described by most as, at best, anti-social and, at worst, rude. His parents and family looked on, powerless, as Derek grew into his teens and simultaneously shrank further and further into himself.

His sleeping habits also worsened. Even as an eleven-year-old, he was plagued at night by thoughts of What if I never get a soulmate? and What if I don't have a soulmate? and What if there’s something wrong with the soul bond? and What if my soulmate is dead?

Of course, when most of his family died in the fire, Derek’s lack of a soulmate suddenly became relatively irrelevant. He’d go days, even weeks without thinking about it, this black cloud that once loomed over him at nearly all times in just a few seconds became frivolous when compared with the enormity of what he’d done and agony of what had happened. 

(Sometimes Derek would try to blame his unborn soulmate; if he hadn’t been quite so emotionally vulnerable at the time because the non-existent bond, maybe he wouldn’t have allowed Kate to seduce him quite as easily as he had. Sometimes thinking this would make him feel better. Other times, not quite so much, but it seemed to momentarily lift the weight from himself even if it never improved his sleeping pattern.)

Within a year of the fire that devastated and tore apart his life, the two other remaining family members were gone also. Laura left for New York--she’d asked Derek to go with her, and she’d put up more of a fight than Derek had expected after he refused, but he couldn’t bring himself to consider leaving Beacon Hills, even if Laura was now his legal guardian--and Uncle Peter was officially comatose. Derek figured he would stay put, not in the burnt-out shell of the Hale mansion but in a cabin he was in the process of building a few miles deeper into the forest. Laura took Peter with her, and the bond with both of them quickly dissipated over the course of a few weeks following their sudden absence and, finally, Derek, at the age of fifteen, was an omega.

It was actually that very week, the week that Laura left, that his soul bond appeared. 

It was sudden and painless, such that it was possible that he didn’t notice the bond until a few hours after it formed. One moment there was nothing, and another he looked down at his wrist and it was there, red and glowing and everything he’d been told it would be, except kids would often get a party when their soul bond formed, or would at least have someone to tell. Derek having neither of those things--and not wanting the former either way--meant that there was no point really in thinking anything of it. (He would never admit, even to himself, why 8th April was a date that would always stick in his mind, whether he cared about the implications or not.)

The appearance of the soul bond, once highly anticipated, was now something of concern. In fact, Derek was deeply disturbed by it. This soulmate Derek suddenly had--someone that in another life Derek would have as a mate, perhaps marry, perhaps have children with--was fifteen years younger than him. Fifteen. He would have to wait another eighteen years before most of what being soulmates entailed was actually legal. Even then, the thought of a thirty-three-year-old man courting an eighteen-year-old was sickening enough to him, and more so to society. And now, not only was he a societal pariah, destroyed by what he’d mistakenly thought was love, he was also so repulsed by the thought of his own soulmate that he would become nauseated almost to the point of physically retching.

But that was all speculation anyway. Even if his soulmate wasn’t young enough to be mistaken for his own son or daughter, that wouldn’t change the fact that Derek wasn’t soulmate material, not to anyone. Not after what he’d done, the lives he’d destroyed, the people he’d disappointed, the shoddy excuse of a cabin that he called home. He couldn’t be good for anyone. He even so much as pitied them, growing up dreaming of the day that they’d meet their true love as fairytales liked to put it, and eventually finding at the end of the ribbon someone like Derek. 

The prospect was disheartening in itself, but Derek couldn’t see it in any other light; he had already learned, from his family and from Laura and Peter. He would not risk making the same mistake twice.

Regardless of whether he actually deserved a soulmate, once the ribbon appeared Derek knew it was only a matter of time before the person, the child, on the other end would seek him out. And, whether it would be five, ten, fifteen years or longer, all he could do was wait for the day to come.

 

Derek was twenty-four and his soulmate was nine when that day--or rather, night--came. A lot but at the same time not much had changed since he was fifteen. The “a lot” part was that he was now an alpha, having had to put down a feral omega that ventured too close to Beacon Hills for comfort--not that Derek particularly cared about the town, but he didn’t trust the Argents nor the Sheriff’s Department to make a quick, clean job of it on Derek’s side of the forest, for obvious reasons. 

The “not much” part was that he was still living in the cabin he’d built when he was fifteen, plus a couple of necessary renovations, but, more importantly, he was still packless. Still an omega, regardless of his alpha status, something which he had no idea what to do with if he were perfectly honest.

He knew who it was the moment he heard the knock on his door; his only visitors were mailmen, and they certainly didn’t knock with the fervor that this person did, nor did they have very young and painfully childlike voices that called-out “hello?” when Derek didn’t answer the second knock.

Figuring that the boy--his mate, his soulmate, a human boy--wouldn’t go away unless prompted, Derek timidly approached and opened the door with such dread in his stomach that it was as if he thought his greatest fear was waiting for him on the other side.

The first thing he noticed about the boy was how agonisingly young he was. The only way Derek could find he could describe him was as small. The boy was little over half Derek’s height, which was only exaggerated by the angle that the boy’s head had to tilt so that he could look up at Derek. The huge t-shirt also, falling to just above his knees, overemphasised how skinny his frame was, how fragile and boyish.

The second thing Derek noticed about him was, in contrast, how big his eyes were. They were expressive and wide, and brown as they gazed unblinkingly up at the werewolf through a fan of absurdly long lashes.

Derek couldn’t tell how long the two of them stood there staring at each other. While the boy appeared shocked, his mouth hanging open, Derek found himself waiting for and expecting fear or disappointment or both to appear in those eyes and, ultimately, for the boy to run away. And, if the boy didn’t do something in the next few seconds, Derek was going to walk away and close the door for good. 

But the boy eventually, finally, spoke. “Hi I’m Stiles pleased to meet you sir!” And with that, the boy stuck his hand out for Derek to shake, sending a near-overwhelming waft of his scent that the ‘wolf struggled to refrain from breathing in, but couldn’t help but mentally register the combination of petrichor and nervousness and the faint but startling medicinal smell.

It took Derek a moment to recover before he took the hand and numbly gave it a light shake, unsure of what else he could do to diffuse the situation as quickly and as painlessly as possible. But, then again, he was a masochist, and perhaps that was why he responded to the boy’s introduction with a simple, “Hello,” instead of, “Who the fuck names their son Stiles?”

In response to those two syllables, and seemingly unfazed by Derek’s outward lack of emotion, the boy gave Derek the widest, most genuine smile he had seen in over nine years (dear lord, even some of his teeth weren’t fully developed). “What’s your name? Are you my soulmate?”

Derek gritted his teeth. “Derek,” he said, choosing to completely bypass the latter question.

Even so, said question didn’t need an answer, because if the boy wasn’t completely stupid, he would be able to tell quite clearly that Derek was his soulmate. That was, after all, what the soul bonds were actually for. 

“Cool!” the boy--Stiles--exclaimed, eyes, wide with excitement, fixed on Derek. A moment passed before he said, “Can I give you a hug?”

Derek decided he’d had enough. “Go home,” he ordered, gruff despite not wanting to actually slam the door in the boy’s face.

The smile fell from Stiles’ face. “I-is that not what soulmates do?” he asked as though it was something that he was genuinely wanting to know. “It’s just that tha’s what Lydia and Jackson do and they’re soulmates. But I don’t like it when they do that--well no, I don’t like Jackson, I like Lydia, and Jackson’s mean ‘cause he’s really mean to me, but they’re soulmates so--I-I just thought that soulmates would--”

Oh God. “Go home,” Derek reiterated--or growled, depending on how rose-tinted his vision was.

He caught one last glimpse of the boy, tears welling up around those soulful irises, then he slammed his front door quickly before his instincts betrayed him.

It was a close call. Any longer and Derek’s wolf wouldn’t have allowed the boy to leave, perhaps ever. So it was for the best that, after a long moment during which Stiles snivelled miserably, trying his best not to cry, and Derek prayed that the child would go away, the boy finally left, stumbling back into the forest, back to where he came from, to where he was safe from Derek and all that came with him. The boy would be upset, Derek knew, and perhaps heartbroken, but, even if the boy would never understand why, Derek was positive that he’d made the right decision in scaring him off.

So, of course, a couple of hours later, the time reading half eleven, Stiles had to come back. He just had to. Because the universe just couldn’t give Derek a break.

Derek opened the door before the boy could knock, having heard the already familiar pant of his breathing. Once he opened the door, the werewolf having planned to dismiss the boy straight away, he stopped abruptly, the words dying in his throat before he could open his mouth.

The boy wasn’t full-on bawling, which was a plus. But there were multiple tear-tracks lining his sanguine cheeks, contrasting with the almost white pallor of the rest of his skin. Derek would have assumed that Stiles didn’t spend much time outside if it weren’t for the dark freckles dotted over every expanse of skin visible.

“M-mister Derek, sir?” the child mumbled, eyes cast down at his feet in what seemed to be shame, while he smelt mostly of sour exhaustion, desperation and nervousness. There were fresh scratches on the boy’s cheeks and the knees of his baggy jeans were muddy. His heart-rate was so fast Derek could have mistaken it for a forest animals’, if not for the way he panted as if he’d been running.

Even though he could feel his wolf was desperate to comfort his mate, Derek replied only with a terse, “What do you want?”

“I’m really sorry sir,” the kid said mournfully. 

Derek pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed in slowly. “What is it?”

“I can’t--I can’t…” Stiles stammered. “Uh, I don’t know how to get home, sir.”

Then how the fuck did you get here then? was what Derek almost said, but thankfully stopped himself because he didn’t actually have the IQ of a five-year-old. Which didn’t mean that Derek wasn’t so stupid, so stupid, God, why hadn’t he realised that the kid wouldn’t be able to get home? Assuming he was here on his own, he almost definitely lived in Beacon Hills which was miles from Derek’s cabin as the crow flies, and God knows how long it would take for a nine-year-old to walk back to the town through the dense forest, assuming he actually knew where he was going. Which he didn’t. The only thing he had used to navigate was the bond between them.

The werewolf sighed deeply and after a deliberating moment, he said, “Fine. Wait there. I’ll take you back.”

Derek’s heart violently sank as the boy looked up at him with hope painfully obvious in his expression, gazing up at Derek as if he hung the moon. 

Scowling, Derek decided the kid needed a reality check, but he certainly wasn't going to be the one to give it to him. Instead, he went with angrily pulling on his walking boots, worn and tatty but the sturdiest shoes he owned, grabbing his coat, his keys, and locked the door behind him before turning to face the boy. He looked down, and Stiles looked up, as if they were both searching for something in each other’s eyes. Derek eventually relented. “C’mon,” he said, stepping off the porch and walking in the direction of the town. The quicker he got the kid home the quicker this whole soulmate thing would be behind him.

The boy scurried to his side, having to practically jog to keep up with Derek’s long strides. The werewolf slowed a little. He didn’t need the kid tiring out so quickly.

A couple of minutes were spent with Derek trying his best to ignore the boy before the silence between them was inevitably broken. 

“Y’know,” Stiles began matter-of-factly. “I didn’t think you’d be a boy.”

“I’m not a boy,” he replied gruffly.

The boy squinted up at him. “You’re not?”

Oh what the hell. “I’m a werewolf.”

Derek expected that to put Stiles off a little. But it didn’t. “Oh!” he exclaimed, as if the revelation pleased him. “That make’s sense. ‘Cause--because of the eyebrows. And the--and the growling.” Said werewolf raised one of said eyebrows. The boy carried on regardless. “But tha’s not what I meant. I meant I thought you’d be a girl. Like a-a girl werewolf, or something. ‘Cause I like Lydia, so I--I thought… yeah.”

A beat of silence. Derek closed his eyes briefly.

Then the boy piped up with, “Do you like boys?”

Derek chose his words carefully as he deigned the question with, “I don’t like anyone.” The boy frowned, visibly confused. “And if I did like boys, they wouldn’t be boys. They’d be men.”

“Oh.” Stiles seemed almost upset by this. “O-okay then.”

And then they relapsed into an uncomfortable silence. After a few moments, when Derek deemed it safe, he cast a quick look down at his little soulmate, something catching his eye that he hadn’t noticed before: a mark, a tattoo peaking out from beneath the collar of the baggy t-shirt. What kind of nine year old had a tattoo? Derek wondered.

Derek only realised he’d been staring at the boy’s neck by the time it was too late; Stiles looked up and, realising that Derek was looking at the tattoo, grinned and pulled the collar down to reveal the extent of the mark: it looked celtic, not dissimilar to Derek’s triskele, and like something the werewolf knew he should recognise, but couldn’t quite put his finger on.

“It’s pretty cool, isn’t it?” Stiles said with a gleeful glint in his eyes, apparently happy that Derek had taken notice.

“Aren’t you too young for a tattoo?” was what came out of Derek’s mouth.

Stiles shrugged. “Yeah, but it’s not a normal tattoo,” he explained. “It’s a--it’s a… What did doctor Deaton say it was again?”

The werewolf nearly blanched at the name. It was something he hadn’t heard in a long time.

Stiles all the while continued soliloquising. “Like, protection thingy? Rune? I dunno I prob’ly should’ve been listening. I just wanted it ‘cause it looks cool.”

Even so, Derek thought, what was Deaton doing tattooing nine year old boys with ancient runes?

As if he’d spoken aloud, the boy answered the question almost exactly on cue. “I got it done last year, after I passed the first bit of training,” Stiles announced proudly. “It kinda hurt thought, but Doctor Deaton said I couldn’t do the next bit without the, uh, rune, so I had to get it. I don’t want to be a druid though. Doctor Deaton’s a druid, but he can’t do much. He just reads books all the time and is really boring. I wanna do really cool stuff. He said I’d get to do cool stuff when I get older. But he says I have to do all the really boring stuff first an’ read all the books. I mean--I like reading the books, but the runes that make me focus make my head and my eyes hurt too, so I--”

“Where do you live?” Derek interrupted abruptly, as they approached the final stretch of forest before they would reach the edge of town.

“Oh, uh, with my dad. He’s the sheriff, so we lives near the sheriff department where he works.”

Derek almost face-palmed. Of course, of course, not only was his soulmate fifteen years younger than him--bad enough, right--but his soulmate was also the son of the sheriff of Beacon Hills. Perfect. Just perfect.

“You can meet him!” the boy exclaimed. “He always says how soulmates are really special. So you’re really special ‘cause you’re my soulmate--oh! I can’t wait to tell Scott!”

Derek glared down at his boots.

“See, Scott’s my best friend in the whole wide world. So you should totally meet him. That would be so cool.”

“What is your address?”

“It’s, umm, number sixteen on, uh, Goldfield road,” he replied, phrasing the answer as if it was a question. “It’s got a green front door. And my mom’s big blue car outside it.”

Derek recognised the description of the house. Stilinski. John and Claudia Stilinski. He remembered Sheriff Stilinski, who was at the scene on the night of the fire. And he remembered Claudia, who must be Stiles’ mom, as she was good friends with Talia before passing away. He felt a twinge of sympathy for Stiles, but quickly pushed away any ideas of comforting the boy. He needed to get him home as quickly and as painlessly as possible.

The rest of the journey continued in relative quiet. Derek could tell that the boy was tiring, his steps becoming more uneven, sometimes stumble a little as if falling asleep on his feet. Luckily, the situation wasn’t dire enough that Derek would have to carry him, but it was pretty damn close.

The sheriff was on the front porch when they arrived. Stiles ran up to his father and launched himself at his legs, wrapping his whole body around him.

“Stiles,” the man scolded. “Where have you been? Do you know what the time is, young man? I was about to send out a search party.”

“Dad, dad, dad, dad, dad,” Stiles said, bouncing up and down on his feet. “I found my soulmate dad. I told you I would. His name’s Derek.”

The werewolf cringed from where he was standing idly at the gate, hopes of a discrete, uninterrupted getaway crushed before his eyes as he looked up and met the gaze of a man who certainly was not happy about his being there. The two men regarded each other stiffly, Sheriff Stilinski with unease and dawning horror, and Derek with apprehension masked as best he could with nonchalance, wishing he hadn’t decided to wear his leather jacket so he’d look less like a criminal.

“Stiles,” John Stilinski began slowly. “Who is this man?”

The boy lifted his head from where his face was buried in his father’s shirt. “He’s my soulmate, dad. His name’s Derek and he had to take me home ‘cause I got lost in the woods when I was tryin’ t’find his house.”

The Sheriff didn’t take his eyes off Derek once as he swallowed, gaze settling into one which was unreadable, but no less threatening.

Stiles could sense the mounting tension. “Dad? What is it dad?”

“Go to your room, Stiles,” his father commanded quietly.

“But dad, Derek’s here.”

“I need to speak with him.”

“But--”

Only now the Sheriff looked down at his son. “Go to your room,” the man ordered.

“But can I say goodbye to--”

“To. Your. Room, Stiles.”

The boy scowled in reluctant resignation, his scent distinctly upset. Nevertheless, he turned to look at Derek and waved. “Bye, mister Derek,” he called out, somehow both cheerful and somewhat glum. The werewolf watched as, with a quick glare in his father’s direction, Stiles trudged grumpily back into the house.

The moment his footsteps were out of the human hearing range, the Sheriff suddenly strode toward Derek and, with an index finger pointed directly at Derek’s chest, Stilinski spat, “Don’t you dare.”

Derek would never admit to being intimidated. The Sheriff wasn’t necessarily bigger than him in the muscle department, but he was certainly taller by at least a few inches. And what the man lacked in a less that nondescript leather jacket, he made up tenfold with the sheriff’s uniform and the gun--with normal, wolfsbane-free bullets, as far as Derek could smell--that he not-so-subtly stroked in its holster. Of course, neither the uniform not the bullets in his gun could do any lasting damage to Derek, but the sentiment was clear. Not to mention that this was the most human interaction he’d had in far too long a time, so the werewolf was unfairly rusty in that aspect.

And as a result, Derek did nothing save look at his boots while the Sheriff’s eyes bore uncomfortably into the werewolf’s being.

Stilinski continued, voice dangerously low, face becoming redder and redder with rage by the second. “I know who you are, Mr Hale. Regardless of whatever claim you may think you have on my son, it doesn’t change that fact. It doesn’t change that you were a murder suspect. It doesn’t change the fact that you are an alpha werewolf with blood, however legal, on your hands. It doesn’t change the fact that my son is a nine-year-old boy and you are a fully grown male--how the fuck old are you anyway?”

Derek swallowed. “Twenty-four, sir,” he murmured.

“Aw, Hell.” The Sheriff put his hands on his hips and sighed. “Jesus fucking Christ. Fifteen years? Really?”

“I would never…” Derek began. “I swear I won’t--come near your son. I wasn’t planning on it.” The Sheriff raised an eyebrow, so Derek continued. “I’ve never tried to find him. And he couldn’t find his way home, and there was no one else around, so I brought him myself. That’s all. I didn’t touch him. I would never, not like--”

He stopped himself. He was going to say, not like Kate did, but not only would the Sheriff not have a clue as to what he meant, but it wasn’t exactly relevant. Sure, he’d been underage and Kate had been twenty-five, but that was laughably unexceptional when compared with the blaringly dangerous situation he was now powerless to avoid. It would still be seen as abnormal by most when Stiles was eighteen and Derek was thirty-three. The numbers were beginning to make the werewolf’s head throb.

The Sheriff’s tone was still distinctly unfriendly when he said, “But, you see, Mr Hale, I don’t know that. You may have helped us out in the past, and for that I am grateful, but to put it plainly, you are not a member of this Beacon Hills community. And regardless of what or who is responsible for that fact, I still can’t trust you.”

And what could Derek say to that? Nothing. So he hung his head and waited for the man to finish.

“And I’m afraid,” Stilinski continued, “that you’re word is not enough. Not when the matter concerned is the safety of my son. I know--I’ve been an officer long enough to know--that you alpha werewolf folk are particularly enthusiastic when it comes to your mates, and you--you get urges. By no fault of your own, too. But mark my words, that is no excuse. Is that clear?”

“Crystal, sir,” Derek replied automatically.

“Good. And I am sorry for what happened to your pack. I really am.” Derek flinched. “But I don’t want you anywhere near my boy, Mr Hale.”

“Understood, sir.”

“I don’t want you to look at him and I don’t want you to make contact with him in any way.” Then, in a somewhat softer voice, he said, “You may think you’re protecting him, but trust me when I say the best way to protect him is to leave him be. When he’s eighteen, he’ll be able to make his own decisions. But, please, let him grow up first. Let him have a real childhood.”

“I want that,” Derek said, voice sounding a little strangled to his own ears.

Stilinski stared searchingly into his eyes one last time, before saying, “Good,” and turned on heel to make his way indoors. “Goodbye, Mr Hale.”

And then the front door closed, leaving Derek feeling unexpectedly heavier than when he arrived. He quickly turned and began the trek back to the cabin before it became more difficult than it already was.


	2. Birthdays

Derek spends a year after that night consciously trying to not think about Stiles. He would often find himself idly wondering what the kid would be doing at that moment, and he’d wonder exactly what kind of person the universe apparently thought would be a suitable mate to a man like him. He would try to close those thoughts down before they could do any real damage, but some nights he would allow himself to speculate a little.

But a year later, all that hard work was ruined. It had come to the point where Derek would almost expect everything he ever did to eventually turn on him or prove to be pointless. In this case, it was the latter.

The werewolf sighed and opened the door. At least it wasn’t eleven o’clock at night this time. 

Stiles is in almost in tears this time, but thankfully not crying. Whatever it was, the deep-set scowl on Derek’s face didn’t seem to make matters worse, which the werewolf supposed was a win.

The kid’s eyes were just as wide and as honest as ever when he asked, voice small, even shy, “Do you not want me, Mister Derek?”

Derek didn’t know what to say to that. Saying that he didn’t want him would probably cause the boy to cry, but saying that he did want him would complicate matters on so very many levels.

“Is it true?” the boy asked again when Derek didn’t answer. “I just… I just wanna know.”

“Did your father tell you that?” the werewolf eventually settled on.

Stiles nodded. Even with his hands held behind his back, Derek could still tell that he was fidgeting.

When Derek spoke, it was with surprising tenderness. “You should listen to your father.”

“But I want to know if it’s true,” the boy protested.

“Just do what your father says, kid.” Shit, he hadn’t meant for that to sound so...so fond.

“Is it because I’m not a girl?” Stiles asked sincerely. “Is it because I’m a boy?”

“Yes. It is because you’re a boy.” God fucking damn it, Derek couldn’t stand to see the boy look as broken-hearted and as crestfallen as he did. He just couldn’t leave it like that. “And because I’m an adult,” he continued. “Boys should be with boys or girls. Adult should be with adults.”

At that, Stiles looked a little less like all his hopes and dreams had been crushed, but still managed to look so goddamn sad in a way that Derek’s usually dormant heart reflexively clenched at. “But can’t we be friends? Is that not allowed either?”

Derek almost cringed. The mere thought alone of being friends with Stiles was painful in itself. He didn’t think his wolf would be able to handle it. “You’re father wouldn’t be too happy about that,” was all Derek could bring himself to reply with.

“Then what about when I’m an adult too?”

The werewolf forced a tiny smile. “Maybe. Perhaps.”

Derek hated how those two words could cause that boy’s eyes to light up with hope. But, then again, anything less and his wolf wouldn't stand for it.

“C’mon. I'll walk you back to town.”

 

It was only a few months before Derek saw Stiles again. He hadn't known what the exact date was at the time, but when the kid turned up on his doorstep in early April Derek took a guess and figured was Stiles’ birthday. And it was for that reason, and that reason only, that the werewolf eventually decided to answer the door.

The boy greeted him with a bright grin that matched his eyes--no tears for a change, thank God--which turned into a small, cheeky smirk as he said, “It's my birthday today,” as if it was an achievement to be proud of.

“Is that so,” the werewolf drawled, leaning against the threshold with his arms crossed over his chest. He was wearing only sweatpants and a wife-beater. Amid Stiles’ apparent glee, Derek saw his eyes bulge slightly as they momentarily dropped down to Derek’s chest. Even with his enhanced senses, the werewolf couldn’t tell whether the reaction was one of fear or excitement or admiration. Most likely it was a concoction of all three.

That being said, Stiles recovered quickly. “Yeah,” he said, beaming and, evidently, not entirely cultured in the art of sarcasm. “I’m now ten years old.”

“Impressive.”

“Y’know what that means?”

“What.”

“It means I can do whatever I want.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Does it now?”

“Mm hmm,” the boy said, nodding with a stern expression. “So you have to do whatever I say.”

“Do I really?”

“Yes. So can I come in?”

The werewolf tightened his arms across his chest. “And why would you want to do that?”

The ten-year-old narrowed his eyes incredulously. “Because it’s my birthday, duh?”

Derek snorted; what could he say to that? He was one smart-ass kid, so much so that it was no wonder the sheriff was so eager for Stiles to have a “normal” childhood. “Fine,” Derek relented. “You can come in, but you can only stay for five minutes.”

At that, the boy gave a small but no less energetic fist-pump. “Yes!” he hissed. 

Derek rolled his eyes heavenward and stepped aside as Stiles bounded into his cabin.

It was small, maybe the size of four adjacent prison cells, but Derek liked to think that he made the most of it by making it open-plan (AKA a one-room house). It had a stove that doubled-up as a heater in winter (which he used instead of a campfire largely because he was adverse to open-flame), a mattress in the corner, a bookshelf that he made from scratch, a chest of drawers, and a partially scorched armchair. Those five things, among a few other bits and pieces he had lying around, were all he needed. Those, plus the out-door toilet cubicle he’d set up near the river where he would clean himself and wash his clothes. 

It was simple. Life was simple. He liked that.

Considering the minimalistic nature of Derek’s belongings, Stiles seemed to take a long time to take it all in. Once he stopped glancing around, the first thing he said was, “You don’t have a TV.”

“No, I do not,” the werewolf agreed as he watched Stiles from the doorway.

The boy seemed at a loss. “But--but…” He turned to Derek and said with genuine concern, “But how do you play Xbox?”

“I don’t play Xbox.” He never had, either.

Stiles gaped. “You really need a TV, dude. And movies. And an Xbox,” he told Derek.

“There’s no electricity. So even if I wanted a TV, I wouldn’t be able to make it work.”

“Then how do you…?” Stiles asked, gesturing vaguely into the half-light of the cabin.

For a reason unbeknownst to Derek, he felt compelled to explain himself, and perhaps even felt a little self-conscious about it. “Gas,” he said. “I have a gas lamp and a gas stove.”

“Oh,” the boy murmured, blinking as he surveyed Derek’s home once more. “Tha’s cool, I guess.” 

He then wandered across the room and crawled up into the armchair. Derek closed his eyes and tried to unclench his fists. “Stiles,” he eventually managed to say, barely keeping the grit out of his voice. “I don’t know what you want from me, but I don’t have a birthday present for you if that’s what you want.”

Stiles shrugged, legs swinging restlessly as he tried to get comfortable in the chair. “That doesn’t matter ‘cause you didn’t know it was your birthday. You can get one for me next year.”

Derek couldn’t help himself. Besides, it wasn’t like he had any idea what a twelve-year-old boy would want, much less have the spare money to afford it. “And why would I do that?” he snidely asked.

The boy abruptly stopped swinging his legs.The hint of venom in Derek’s voice coupled with what he said seemed to flick a switch in the boy, and all of a sudden his previously jovial mood had depleted entirely. 

“Umm,” Stiles began, shifting uncomfortable in the chair, seemingly at a loss of what to say. He looked down at the floor, far away from where Derek was standing, and flushed red as he said, “I-it’s fine. You don’t have to get me a birthday present, I suppose.”

Having successfully ruined the mood of before, Derek waited for the boy to leave. But the kid then piped up with, “So when’s your birthday?”

Oh God. “Why do you want to know?” the werewolf asked nonchalantly. 

Without a beat, the kid countered Derek’s question with, “Because it’s my birthday.”

“You can only know my birthday if you tell me what you’re planning to do with the information.”

The kid rose to the bait. “Because I might wanna get you a present,” he stated somewhat reluctantly. “So you can see what you’re missing out on.”

The werewolf cast a glance at his non-existent wristwatch. “Five minutes are up. Time to go.”

The boy leapt down from the chair and rushed towards Derek. “Oh please! Just tell me. I promise not to tell anyone else!” he begged.

“No.”

“I’ll only ever go home if you tell me your birthday,” Stiles warned him, folding his arms in a way that exactly mirrored Derek’s posture.

Of course, Derek ended up relenting, but all in the name of quickly getting rid of Stiles. Which Derek found was acceptable, if only just.

 

True to his word, on 7th November, the boy came knocking once again. He was beaming and he pretty much screamed “Happy birthday Derek!” and it was a little too much for Derek, his chest constricting painfully for all of a few seconds, a pang of something indefinable clenching in his stomach.

“Hi Stiles,” the werewolf murmured, all the while not entirely sure exactly why he was quite as startled as he was.

To make matters worse, Stiles was also clutching a brightly coloured gift bag that read “Something for Someone Special” in shiny cursive lettering. The boy suddenly thrust out said gift bag. “Look! I got you a present too.”

Instead of taking the out-stretched bag, Derek stepped aside and beckoned for Stiles to come in. The werewolf closed the door behind himself, preferring to keep the dwindling heat of the stove from escaping into the crisp November air. “You didn’t have to get me a present, Stiles,” he told the boy.

“Well, I’ve brought it now so you have to take it,” Stiles informed him, pushing the bag into Derek’s hands.

It was actually, to Derek’s relief, quite a light package. How hard could it be?

“No no no,” Stiles exclaimed when Derek pulled out something round and flat badly-wrapped in birthday-themed wrapping-paper. “Open the card first.”

Derek did so. On the front of the card was a grumpy-looking cartoon werewolf wearing a party hat. On the inside was what Derek assumed was Stiles’ large, childish font, reading “Dear Derek Hope you have a really really really amaz-balls birthday Lots of love Stiles :D xoxoxoxoxoxoxo”.

When Derek looked up from the card, Stiles was smiling expectantly up at him. “Now your present!” he said, clapping his hands with excitement. 

Derek sat down in the arm chair before he attempted to unwrap the present. He’d need to be sitting for this if his delicate sensibilities towards the card were anything to go by. He lifted the object from the bag and placed the bag on the floor before beginning to carefully unwrap it.

As he did so, Stiles was babbling. “It took absolutely ages to figure out what I was gonna get you. See, I didn’t know what you liked ‘cause we haven’t talked much, but I really wanted to get something really cool, y’know? But if I bought something really cool, it would be really expeni-expensive an’ I don’t get much pocket money, an’ I couldn’t ask dad ‘cause I didn’t want him to know. So I thought, I know! I’ll make Derek a gift! So then I spoke to Doctor Deaton about it, ‘cause we were making a tali--a...a… a talisman in our lessons, so I said I wanted to make one for you and--Derek? Derek? Is it okay? Do you like it?”

The werewolf stared down at what was immediately recognisable as a dreamcatcher: a wooden circlet bound into shape by a psychedelic web of white and grey threads. From the willow hung, instead of feathers, several threads that strung together a series of beads and tiles, each etched with some kind of rune, each different but all clearly from the same script.

“Doctor Deaton helped me, but I did most of it,” Stiles continued, excitement deflating slightly before he murmured, “I hope you like it.”

How could Derek not like it? The scent of his mate had seeped into the willow frame from the hours of focus the boy put in to make it. Each rune had been hand-carved and as a result he couldn’t tear his eyes from each knife-stroke out of the sheer wonder that this had been made for him. And by his own mate, no less.

Having carefully inspected the gift, Derek dared to look up and gave stiles a small smile. “Thank you Stiles. It’s beautiful.”

Stiles beamed. “It’s a dreamcatcher!” he said energetically. “See, you hang it above your bed, an’ it catches the bad dreams. Well, it doesn’t really catch them. The runes jus’ keep the bad dreams away.”

“Thank you,” Derek repeated. Thank you for the card. For the gift. For wanting to spend time with me.

“That’s okay,” Stiles said, still beaming. “I like seeing you, so… Hey, are you having a birthday party?”

Derek blinked. “No. No I’m not. I don’t...” He felt himself flush a little. “Adults don’t celebrate their birthdays as much as kids.”

Stiles frowned. “But my dad has parties. Well, actually, the other po-lice have a party for him and it’s not much of a party ‘cause there aren’t any games, but he gets lots of presents from the other deputies,” the kid rambled.

“Well, I’m not a fan of parties.”

“Everyone likes parties.”

Derek sighed. “Then I’m not a fan of birthdays.”

Stiles’ eyebrows pinched together in concern. “You’re not?”

“Not really.”

The kid seemed to be at a loss. “But-but…” he spluttered. “Aren’t your friends and family coming to see you? Aren’t you going to get lots of presents?”

Derek gave a pained smile. “I’ve had a present. From you.”

The kid’s eyes widened comically. “But that’s just one.”

“That’s all I need,” Derek said gruffly, not particularly keen on Stiles’ habit of feeling sorry for him, nor did he enjoy having to confront the unfulfilling, empty nature of his life.

“Wait, so,” Stiles began somewhat unhappily. “If I didn’t come to give you your present you would have been all alone on your birthday?”

“I like the peace and quiet,” the werewolf countered cooly.

Stiles seemed to find it distinctly upsetting. “But no one should be alone on their birthday,” he avidly protested. “You should have presents, an’ balloons an’--and cake! Will you not have a birthday party next year?”

“It’s not likely, no,” Derek muttered.

Nodding with a stern expression on his face, Stiles said, “Okay then. I’ll bring a cake next year.”

“Stiles.”

“I’ll bring a really big cake, and balloons, and a really big banner so people know to come to your party--”

“Stiles,” Derek eventually snapped, voice raised just enough to shut the boy up immediately. “You can’t come next year. You shouldn’t visit me at all.”

“What? Why?” the boy asked, his eyes searching Derek’s in confusion.

“Because you’re too young. And your father won’t allow it. You should do as he says.”

“But he doesn’t even know I’m here,” Stiles said, as if it was a perfectly good excuse. “He thinks I’m at Scott’s. Scott will cover for me.”

“He’s the Sheriff. He would find out eventually.”

“You’re scared of him, you are,” Stiles did his best to sneer. “You’re just scared.”

Derek couldn’t believe he was arguing with a ten-year-old. “Sure I am,” he said with a shrug. “If he ever found out about this, he’d arrest me.”

Stiles gasped and his eyes widened impossibly. “You think he would?”

The werewolf snorted. “He told me himself that he would.”

The boy seemed like he was struggling to process the information. “But… That doesn’t make sense!” he protested. “He said my soulmate was someone special. So why would he arrest you for seeing me?”

“I’m sorry Stiles,” Derek said in an attempt to comfort the boy who was, yet again, closer to tears than the werewolf felt comfortable with. “Once you’re eighteen, though, you can do whatever you like.”

“You think so?” Stiles asked in a small voice, looking up tentatively through his lashes as he did so.

Oh what the hell, why not. “Sure,” Derek said as casually as he could muster. “I’ll still be here.”

The boy’s shoulders slumped. “But I won’t be eighteen for… eight years!”

“You’ve already waited this long,” Derek pointed out.

“But that’s not the same,” Stiles whined. And then, with a sudden glee in his eyes, he shouted, “I know!”

Dear lord, the boy was going to be the death of him. “What…?” Derek asked slowly.

“I could send you birthday presents!”

Derek winced. “Send them?”

“Yeah! The postman can give them to you, that way I won’t need to come all the way out here--ooh, what’s your address?”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “You want my address so you can send me birthday presents?” he asked incredulously, even knowing full well that there wasn’t a limit to the extent the boy would go to in order to stay in touch with Derek.

Stiles took the question as a no. “Why not?” he asked, eyes pathetically puppy-like and begging.

Derek knew he would eventually relent. “Okay,” he huffed. “But only if you promise not to visit me until you’re eighteen.”

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles agreed, although he didn’t seem to be all too happy about it. “I promise.”

When he finally got the boy to leave, Derek looked down at the talisman still clutched delicately in his huge-by-comparison hands, and realised that there wasn’t a way for him to hang it on his bed, since he had just a mattress and no bedposts. He ended up hanging it from a nail that he hammered into the wall above his bed, leakages be damned.

 

Yet again, the boy was true to his word. As a result, Derek no longer had visits from Stiles, who instead opted for letters. Lots of letters. In addition to the ones accompanied by more dreamcatchers for Derek’s birthday, he also received one on Stiles’ own birthday, Christmas, Thanksgiving… and many other obscure american holidays. Hell, the werewolf was sometimes even sent a letter on Scott’s birthday, someone--since he started receiving the letters--with whom Derek felt like he was far too well acquainted given that he’d never met this Scott, and Scott was also the same age as Stiles.

The upside was that Derek felt a little less like a predator. Not much less, but the fact that he was only on the receiving end of the letters helped with the matter. The downside was that he now had an extensive collection of handwritten letters he kept in a box that he hand-crafted for that specific purpose. And, as a result, the box became so saturated with the scent of paper and Stiles that Derek took to keeping the box in a drawer of its own in an attempt to preserve the smell. 

He would never, however, answer the letters with a reply of his own. He’d come close a couple of times, even once going out of his way to buy lined paper and stamps, but luckily his lack of utensils to write with was an effective deterrent and in the end he never carried out the fantasy. He’d sometimes think about what he’d say in response to Stiles’ at times lengthy but always detailed letters, but he’d often have nothing to really tell the boy about. It wasn’t like anything ever happened in his life.

(Perhaps, he’d sometimes wonder, he could tell Stiles about his family. Stories from his childhood, things like that. He would tell Stiles that he had a sister that was roughly the same age as him, who he thought Stiles would like. But these things were difficult enough even think about, let alone write down in a letter to someone. So Derek eventually gave up on the idea.)

Derek would never admit this to anyone, but he would often read the letters a few more times after the initial opening of the letter. This was partially because he liked the smell of the paper--or perhaps the scent was just his imagination, but he didn’t really care--but also because he was, indeed, a masochist. As time passed and each letter, Derek would gradually realise that this? This was definitely worse than bi-yearly visits. Now, Derek had actual proof that his soulmate was thinking about him, rather than just being pretty sure that he was (not because Derek was cocky at all, but because Derek would think about him at least once a day, and he imagined that Stiles’ soulmate experience would be fairly similiar, even if he wasn’t a werewolf).

There were also some letters that Derek preferred to others. The ones that would make him somewhat uncomfortable, the ones that would weigh on his mind more than the others, were the ones where Stiles would ask him questions. In the first few letters he received, they would all have question for Derek: “how have you been”, or “what do you think about this”, or “are the dreamcatchers working”, or “did you like the dreamcatcher I made this time? I thought it was a lot better than the first other one. Let me know what you think!”

As the number of letters in Derek’s box increased, alongside the number of letters Derek neglected to write, the questions that Stiles would directly ask him began to cease. The werewolf supposed it was because the boy was starting to realise that Derek wasn’t going to answer the letters. At one point, one of Stiles’ letters read: “I don’t know if you’re actually getting these, but I’m going to keep sending them anyway” (Stiles must have been fourteen at the time, Derek thought).

The questions eventually ceased altogether. The length and frequency of the letters dwindled also as the years passed. By the time Stiles was sixteen, Derek only received generic cards with minimal hand-written messages and a printed greeting inside, but still signed by Stiles’ hand. Derek found himself disappointed, if not for the detailed letters, then because he knew he would miss out on Stiles’ growing up. He wouldn’t be able to see the way Stiles’ syntax would change as he became an adult. He wouldn’t be able to see Stiles’ view of the world maturing with each letter. With these cards, nothing of Stiles’ unique voice came through.

Sometime in Stiles’ seventeenth year, the cards stopped altogether.

And a couple of days before Stiles would turn eighteen, Derek wrote a letter of his own.

 

It had taken many, many drafts, but even then Derek wasn’t entirely sure that he’d said the right thing. But he’d spent far too many hours pouring over every word he wrote, so in the end, he just settled for what he had.

“Dearest Stiles,” he decided to begin it with, other options including “Dear Stiles”, “To Stiles”, and simply “Stiles”.

He then continued with, “I hope you’ve had a lovely birthday”, which he sincerely meant, but couldn’t figure out how to make it seem less than a meaningless formality. Then, “I appreciate that I haven’t been communicative in recent years--” Understatement of the year. “--but, if you still want to, I would be very happy to meet up with you sometime. I don’t have a phone number to give you yet, as I’m planning on getting one next week--” He figured it sounded conversational. “--so, until then, if you want to meet-up, reply to this letter with a date, time and place, and I’ll be there.”

It was short, it was sweet, got straight to the point. Perhaps it was a bit blunt, a bit hurried. Perhaps his nervousness came through in the letter. Would that make Derek seem less threatening? Or not confident enough? 

He ended it with “Yours, Derek”, having sifted through many other options, such as “love” (too personal), “from” (to impersonal), “lots of love” (too childish), best wishes (sounding too much like a Christmas card to distant relatives) and a bunch of others.

And so he sent it as it was, feeling lighter than he’d anticipated as he slipped it into a post-box only five miles from the Stilinski’s house. Oh, the things people do for soulmates.

 

There was no reply. Which, Derek told himself, was fine. He had accepted that being completely ignored was a potential outcome. If Stiles didn’t want him, he’d have to accept that too. Derek himself had been the one to let Stiles’ letters go unanswered. But he had promised the Sheriff that he wouldn’t keep any form of contact with Stiles. But, at least, the werewolf couldn’t be accused of leading on the boy (young man, now, Derek realised).

However, about a week later, having resigned himself to the consequences of his action (or lack of), he received a letter. It was the one he’d written, but stamped across it in angry capital letters was RETURN TO SENDER. The envelope didn’t smell like Stiles either, the scent not similar enough to be that of his dad’s. It was the scent of a total stranger.

This startled Derek more than it should have. He turned his letter over in his hands and, sure enough, on the back were the words NO LONGER AT ADDRESS. 

He’d missed Stiles. He was too fucking late. And he’d never been given a new address. He needed that new address.

Without even really thinking about it, Derek was suddenly out of his cabin and set on the path back to Beacon Hills. He just had to find Stiles. He had to know. He needed...he needed to know if he had a chance. That was all.

 

He would have gone to the Sheriff’s department. But if anyone recognised him, namely as an ex-murder-suspect, he would never be able to get the Stilinski’s address from them. So, in the end, he didn’t bother, opting instead for going straight to Deaton’s veterinary. 

The vet didn’t seem surprised to see him. “You’ll have to excuse me, Mr Hale, while I clear up. I’ll be just a moment,” he said in that clinical way Derek had always associated with Deaton, as if it hadn’t been eighteen years since they’d last seen each other.

Derek stood in the waiting room, the sharp smell of bleach and various different animal bodily fluids having little affect on him in his twitchy state. He ignored the cats yowling at him through their cages and hoped Deaton wouldn’t be much longer.

Thankfully, he wasn’t. “What can I do for you, Derek?” the vet asked with a smooth tranquility that could only mean that he knew exactly why Derek was there.

Because of that, the werewolf cut quickly to the chase. “Where’s Stiles?” he demanded.

Deaton gave him a long, hard look, eventually saying, “Mr Stilinski is no longer living in Beacon Hills.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed and he wasn’t entirely sure whether or not his irises flashed red in his frustration. “I don’t care where he isn’t. I want to know where he is.”

The vet gave him another look. “You’re asking the wrong question, Mr Hale.”

The werewolf very nearly snarled as he said, all the while nails extending into talons in his balled up fists, “Then tell me the right answers, Deaton, or I swear--”

“The sheriff is dead.” 

The vet said it so simply, so plainly, so much so that it took a couple of seconds for Derek to process what he’d said. His jaw was hanging open slightly, so he closed it. “He’s--he’s...what?”

“It was just over a year ago,” Deaton continued, crossing his arms as he spoke. “Stiles went to live with his grandparents. I don’t know where he is now.”

Deaton may have been a secretive, slimy bastard, but with his senses heightened by his desperation to find his wolf’s mate, Derek heard the lie. “You’re lying. Tell me--”

“You need to move on, Derek,” the vet told him, seemingly unimpressed. “The last thing that boy needs is the likes of you barging your way into his life.”

Derek spluttered, but couldn’t get anything out before Deaton continued. “Do yourself a favour and sort yourself out. Focus on your own life. Especially before interfering with Stiles’.”

And with that, Derek stormed out of the building. For a second, he was still angry. The vet was getting in the way of an alpha and his mate. Deaton had to know how dangerous that was. 

But, following the trek back to the cabin, and upon seeing for the first time in too long the utter state that his life was in, he wondered if Deaton was right, if he needed to sort his life out first.

The only way to find out was to try.

**Author's Note:**

> Love hearing comments/feedback/criticism (constructive)/what you liked/what you didn't like... :)


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